Mercy Killing
by Wraithwitch
Summary: A prologue to the film, of sorts. My telling of how Benjamin Barker became Sweeney Todd. Historically plausible if not actually accurate... Rated for some violence and swearing. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

_Those who have crossed_

_With direct eyes, to Death's other Kingdom_

_Remember us - if at all - not as lost_

_Violent souls, but only_

_As the hollow men_

TS ELIOT

It is a great and bitter irony that in this world of cruelty, kindness can kill.

**Sarah Island, Van Diemen's Land, Australia.**

**1832.**

Rowley blinked until his eyes had grown accustomed to the half-light. Outside it was midmorning, the sky an unending blue and the sun like a blazing gold sovereign. But here in the cell the air was dusty, cool and stagnant, the only light coming from a grille in the door. The place had been used as a munitions and powder store when the colony was first established; one of five stone huts at the edge of the yard. But after the main complex was built all stores were cellared there: the empty huts were mostly used as somewhere to throw a man after he'd been humbled at the post. 

He looked down at the body in front of him, stretched out on the floor. Barker's left leg was fettered, held by cuff and chain to an iron spike in the wall. 

It seemed a pointless precaution to the officer; he was an excellent judge of a flogging, having seen more than his fair share. By his eye the man wouldn't even be able to move into a corner to shit – not for at least three days. Poor sod...

Rowley didn't waste his time feeling sorry for the convicts on the island; an indulgence in mercy was too often mistaken for weakness. However he experienced an emotion akin to annoyance when he witnessed the world treat broken men with a heavy hand. 

Convicts arrived at Macquarie Harbour in all different shapes and sizes: some vicious, some sick, some hopeless, some already hardened and many dead from the voyage. But in time amongst the living only two types were left: those who wanted to serve their sentence in the colony – because any life was better than no life at all - and those who did not. It was a pity that sometimes justice could not be dispensed amongst the rabble-rousers without falling hard upon the blameless also. 

Rowley knew for a fact that Barker had not stolen the loaf of bread – couldn't have since he'd been up on the slopes cutting huon wood the morning of the theft. Ipswich had done it – he'd been working the ovens at the bake house; only then fearing discovery and hoping to escape punishment he'd hidden it in a fellow prisoner's bunk. 

Rowley accepted Barker would never say who had actually stolen the bread – even though all the convicts knew. It was the first rule amongst the prisoners of the colony: shut your mouth. 

So the lieutenant had spoken up for Barker's innocence. Without solid evidence however, Lieutenant-Governor Sorell was not to be swayed. He claimed precedent could not be set; if a man was caught with stolen goods he was flogged whether he was a thief, a willing accomplice, an innocent or a fool. (Macquarie, he added, looked with even more disfavour on the latter two than the former – best weed them out before they suffered too much.) 

Both Ipswich and Barker had been flogged, one hundred counts each – the highest number allowed at the post in a single session. Ipswich, being both a taller and broader man had borne it better, but even he would be unlikely to walk before the week was out. Barker was a mess. Always slight, the manual labour had added muscle to his shoulders but the short rations had kept him thin; and now that thinness would very likely be the death of him as his body had nothing with which to mend its lacerated flesh.

The lieutenant had brought with him Barker's shirt, a cup and pitcher of water as well as rations of bread. The grain of the stuff was coarse rye shot through with veins of something mealy and red, making it look more like desiccated beef. That was another of Sorell's ideas that Rowley didn't see the point in. Ergot, a fungus that lived on rye and wheat was actively encouraged on the island's crops. Ground down with the grain it turned the flour a vivid rust and caused the fresh-baked bread to rot, stopping the convicts from hoarding their rations. 

Knowing that it was probably a futile gesture, but compelled by a sense of justice none the less, Rowley broke the bread into pieces and set some of it to soak in a little water. "Barker?" Stooping, he tapped the semi-conscious man on the arm. "Come along. There's bread here. Let's see if you can eat."

The man on the floor lifted his head wearily. "Ipswich?" he rasped.

"Hm. Looking better than you," Rowley informed him. "If you're hoping for a little quid pro quo, you're going to have to be up and about first."

Barker gave him a guarded look; he expected a lieutenant to be more circumspect about a convict's wish to settle a score.

Rowley was a staunch Christian; although decades in His Britannic Majesty's army had inured him to life's more everyday cruelties, he was not in himself a vicious man. Be that as it may, neither was he stupid. He'd worked for his commission, not bought it, and knew very well the world was full of men who understood only that the strong ruled the weak. (After all, wasn't that what Empire meant?) 

Had Ipswich been of a sort to respect Barker's silence then perhaps a camaraderie would have formed; but he was more likely to see it as proof Barker could be used as a scapegoat. 

The lieutenant felt that giving Barker a better chance of recovering from the lash was his way of redressing the balance and ensuring that the greater bastard didn't always win...

It was therefore a supremely ill joke on fate's behalf that Barker became poisoned by the ergot in the bread. 

It happened now and again amongst the convicts; just another aspect of life like lice, dysentery, hunger and hopelessness. It was called St Anthony's Fire. It began as nausea and headaches and then became a severe burning in the limbs as if they were being pricked with hot irons. Despite this sensation of heat the victim became pallid and chill to the touch as blood ceased to circulate correctly. Other effects included hallucinations, convulsions and unconsciousness. The sickness could lead to gangrene and also to death in those undernourished and unable to fight it off.

Two days later, Rowley stood in Barker's cell, his arm in front of his face as he tried to shield his nose from the stench of piss and vomit with his sleeve. Barker was grey with sweat and shivering fitfully. At some point he had struggled into his shirt; it clung wetly to his back, stained with blood and fluid. His closed eyes were bruised hollows and his skull was close beneath his skin. 

Bitterly, Rowley wondered if God was trying to make a point – and if so what exactly was the point the Almighty was attempting to illustrate? That Barker deserved to die? That Rowley was wrong to aid him? That – as Darwin supposed – only those most fit to inherit God's green earth could do so and thus the meeker man was sacrificed? 

All such thought left him feeling hollow and uncomfortable. It was more likely, he reasoned after some internal debate, that Lucifer had passed by this corner of the world and decided to leave no good deed unpunished. (Devils at least he could believe in – who could not, out here amidst such hate and sweat and pain? Angels would be an impossibility, but devils were as common as dirt.)

As he left, the lieutenant ordered Barker's fetter unlocked and the cell cleaned, hoping to give the man some small measure of dignity in his final days and to snub his nose at the devil while he was about it.


	2. Chapter 2

He knew someone was watching him. His eyes could barely open let alone see in the darkness of the cell, but hard-honed instinct told him someone was there none the less.

He strained his ears, searching for a sound beyond that of his blood as it roared within him. Why were they just standing there? It unnerved him, as if some great beast observed him from the depths, waiting, just waiting until he was weak enough. A carrion eater content to bide its time until his body relinquished its struggle to remain amongst the living. 

There was a buzzing in his mind like a thousand flies and he wondered if perhaps his skull had already rotted. Fear gripped him, eclipsing the other torments of thirst and pain. God, let him not be rotting. How could he return to her a corpse? How could he sleep in her embrace claimed by such living death?

Unbidden the remembrance of Coleridge's verse came to him – words that once had seemed dramatic and now served only to mock:

"_Her lips were red, her looks were free,_

_Her locks were yellow as gold:_

_Her skin was as white as leprosy,_

_The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,_

_Who thicks man's blood with cold..."_

He screamed – a cry of rage and denial – but all that escaped his lips was a ragged keen. She could not be dead – must not. She was alive – beautiful and untouched, as if frozen the very day he left her. He had but to return to her and she would thaw, would melt into his arms and heal his every hurt.

He had ceased to count the times he'd dreamt of her, had held her close, beheld her smile and felt the touch of her fingers upon his cheek... before she disintegrated to ash, burnt away by the merciless glare of the sun as it woke him in this god-forsaken place. He thought such dreams not worth the price; but now even that brief happiness would be worth the acrid loss it always dragged in its wake. 

A maelstrom of loneliness and fear opened up inside him, rivalling the constant suffering of his back and the boiling of blood in his veins. One hand clawed out weakly towards the far end of the cell._"L-Lucille..."_ he whimpered, trying to bite the word back and biting only his tongue instead. Fool! To call upon names from the past was like trailing a bloody arm in the bay – it invited the sharks to circle...

There was the soft scrape of boots against stone: the carrion monster of his imaginings had woken.

He turned towards the noise and a choked scream was torn from his throat; agony blazed across his back, digging into his spine and clawing at his shoulders. The tattered remains of his skin felt fresh-branded with pain, as if the lash had returned to kiss more bloody furrows into his flesh.

Out of the shadows stepped a man; his years were barely a score and ten but a lean and dangerous look born of hardship made him seem older. His clothes fitted his narrow frame well and were simple but of good cut. His skin was pale and his eyes glinted like polished jet; his unruly hair was as dark as the shadows from which he'd appeared. 

One long-fingered hand tapped a digit against his lips thoughtfully, the other fastened an arm about his waist. He gazed down at the wretched creature on the floor in front of him. "You poor bastard," he breathed. His London voice was rough, low and pleasant, like gravel that had been washed smooth by the Thames.

"They say the will to endure outlives the will to inflict," he noted softly, stepping forward. "But what do they know about it, eh?" And suddenly he was up close, hunkered down on the balls of his feet only an inch or two from Barker's face. 

The convict uttered a startled cry and flinched back in surprise, too weak to move but unaccountably terrified of this singular and predatory phantom who had invaded his prison. His back blazed with blood and fire once more, searing the air from his lungs. He began to sob, unable to bear his own agony but powerless to end it.

Strong, wiry arms enfolded him, hands locked around his wrists and he was gathered up in an unbreakable embrace. "Shh," growled the stranger with an odd sort of tenderness. "Shh, lay still, boy – lay still." 

The stranger's touch was ice and opium; with a shudder he became faint as a blissful numbness spread slowly up his spine and seeped into his limbs. 

"Rest easy." Still cradling him in one arm the pale man reached up and pushed away the snarls of matted hair from across the convict's face. "This place is gonna be the death of you, boy, if you ain't careful." 

Barker fought to keep his eyes open. _Nine years,_ he thought incoherently. He'd lasted nine years – that was something, wasn't it, when so many stronger than he had died? He supposed the spectre who held him was Death, clad in remembrances of a grimy but beloved city he hadn't seen in almost a decade. It wouldn't be so bad, he decided. Lucile did not have to see him brought so low – and at least it didn't hurt any more...

A ragged chuckle sounded by his ear. "Oh no you don't, boy. You ain't dying – I ain't here to give you an easy way out. Quite the opposite, in fact. I'm here to wake you up – drag you up by your bloody balls if I have to. Light such an inferno in your sad little soul that you'll be happy to walk barefoot all the miles t' London even if the road is lined with broken glass."

The prisoner shivered as his merciful angel became instead Mephistopheles. "I... can't... P-please... I can't," he breathed, pushing the words past a dry throat and blistered lips.

The stranger's eyes glinted malevolently in the darkness and he held onto the man in his arms all the tighter. "I'm disappointed in you, Barker," he whispered, his voice a dangerous lullaby. "Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten the life you had – a wife, a daughter, a house an' home, money, business - respect? You are a very poor soul indeed if you've let this place rob you o' your memories..." He looked down with satisfaction to see tears etch the convict's eyes. He bowed his head to whisper close: "Just like _He _robbed you of your life."

Barker twitched and made a small noise like an animal in pain.

"Ah, so you do remember," he said with satisfaction. "I'm sure he's forgotten you. But I think we should open his eyes, you an' I. I think we should make him remember... an' understand what it is to suffer." A thin smile like a razor's edge graced his lips. "An' when he's dead, then you can return to Lucille an' your little girl, an' live – I've no doubt of it – happily ever after."

"_L-lucille..."_

The smile widened. "That's right. I just need you to trust me t'get us there."

Barker's skull was still full of flies and from one moment to the next they would devour the stranger, leaving him alone, before returning the other man by some legerdemain like the ace of spades at the end of a cheap card trick. Perhaps he really was a demon? Faust had been damned for his deal and his inability to repent; but surely God could not damn him for wanting to live? For wanting to see his wife again? He nodded, offering his consent along with a silent prayer for salvation.

"Good," the stranger said with the finality of one who had struck a bargain. "Now you rest easy, sleep – if you can. That's it. Let me have a little think about the particulars - like how we're to get off this fuckin' rock... An' pray that bloke Rowley comes t'have another gander before too long otherwise we're sunk. I'll wake you when it's time to move..."

Barker's eyes were already closed, unconsciousness dragging him down into its uneasy depths.

0-0-0-0-0

Past midnight but still long before dawn, the lone man in the cell opened his eyes. His shirt stuck to his back and his trousers were stained; his body was sickly and wasted but he walked with an unmistakable purpose, despite the fact he shouldn't have been able to walk at all. Clutched in his fist was a key. His eyes shone like onyx and his smile was razor sharp.

"Come on, shift y'legs, Barker," he rasped quietly to himself. "We've gotta get a boat out past Hell's Gates before anyone knows we're gone. At least gotta get in the damn thing before Rowley guesses he's a key short." 

His head tipped a little to the side in an attitude of concentration. "You feel that? Air's charged - there's a storm coming in." Then he nodded. "Perfect, that is." 

He reached the door and stumbled, barely keeping himself upright. "Careful," he chided softly. "Get us t'the boat." 

Something like a coarse and rusted laugh scratched out of his throat as he turned the key in the lock. "Considering the state o'you, I promise t'do all the rowing…"


	3. Chapter 3

Had all the saints of Christendom asked him how they got the longboat out past the breakers, Barker wouldn't have been able to answer. The wind was picking up, stirring the sea to vexation; the waves were growing inch by inch but seemed more inclined to drown the craft at sea than smash it back against the rocks of Sarah Island.

The stranger sat at the oars and rowed; Barker slumped near the stern of the little boat, shivering and wretched, his back feeling ill-used enough to break. Eventually the weather rose to such a pitch that rowing became futile: the poles were more likely to be torn from one's hand than make any mark upon the ocean. The stranger stowed the oars and unselfconsciously lay himself down beside Barker, bracing them both as best he could against the more violent motions of the water.

For a long time amidst the mounting storm Barker just stared at the man beside him, trying to glean some clue as to his nature or origin – some hint as to how this phantom had been conjured. His flesh was corpse pale and with his shirt-sleeves rolled up there could be seen twin bracelets of scars to rival the convict's own. His face was fine-boned with a wide brow and sharp cheeks; his glass-black eyes glinted from hollows of shadow and his thin lips seemed to know no expression save cynicism. 

"I don't know your name," Barker uttered, the salt wind obliterating his words just as exhaustion threatened to obliterate his mind and the flies within his skull obliterated his companion from time to time. 

The stranger's expression was unreadable and Barker was once more unaccountably put to mind of sharks and blood in the water. He shuddered.

"Sweeney Todd," the stranger said, and despite the tempest his words were as clear as a bell.

0-0-0-0-0

Barker opened his eyes to salt water. He was submerged in it, sunk in it – drowning in it. He thrashed, unsure which way was up, inhaling brine and choking himself. Someone had a grip of his arm and about his neck, he was hauled towards the surface like a cat from a well. Bright sunlight sparked off the waves and blinded him, salt burned in his eyes and nose as he tried to cough his lungs clear. 

"Breathe," ordered the gravely voice of Mr Todd conversationally. 

Barker barely had time to comply before he was pushed back under the waves. He struggled and clawed against the hands that held him, succeeding only in scraping his arm against the outer planking of the boat. With his lungs close to collapse he was once more pulled up to the sky. Cold arms heaved him bodily into the boat and left him there to retch. He was pushed onto his front and his shirt was stripped from him. He gasped, feeling as if his skin had been pared from his flesh.

There was a sound of splashing and the repetitive slap of wet cloth against wood. "I've heard it said that forgiveness is easier to obtain than permission," said Todd, something akin to sarcasm souring his words. "But it's been a long time since I bothered with either." There was silence for a bit save for the ocean and the sound of a shirt being roughly washed. Barker could feel the steady gaze of his companion rest darkly upon his back like a weight.

"You stank," the other explained shortly. "Covered in shit an' you're more likely t' fester than scab. If anyone picks us up an' catches sight of the stripes on your skin they'll ship you right back where you came from."

Still blinded by the sun, Barker simply nodded and concentrated on not retching any more. His blood had long since ceased to rush in his ears but flies still devoured his thoughts leaving him shaken and uncertain.

There was a final thump of sodden cotton against the side of the boat and then the sound of cloth being wrung. The boat tipped then, rocking against the swell as Todd moved around – although what he could find to be doing Barker couldn't guess. His curiosity was allayed some minutes later when a thin hand grabbed his shoulder and helped him to sit up. Fingers danced gently across his back between the welts, assessing the state of the wounds.

"You'll do. Here," Todd said beside him, guiding an unstoppered flask into his hands. "Drink more than two mouthfuls an' I'll drown you myself." 

Obediently Barker swallowed a little from the flask; it was brackish water spiked with a spirit of some kind and a spoonful of vinegar to stop it stagnating entirely.

"Not exactly well provisioned," the other man admitted, taking a swig from the flask and then stowing it away once more. "Piss all food," he grumbled. "But I guess you're used to that." His lips twitched into one of his odd, sharp little smiles. "This was a piece of luck though," he declared, reaching down to pull out a length of old sailcloth from beneath the bench. He shook it out over Barker. "Wrap yourself in that – keep the sun off your head."

"What about you?"

A wider smile, nearer true but still a little sly. "Don't need it, boy. Sun can't touch me – maybe I'll teach you the trick of it some day. You rest. We're at the Gates I shouldn't wonder, so make the most of it." His dark eyes surveyed the ocean coldly. "Once we're out of this straight we hit the depths an' there's nothing between us and the weather."

Barker could not be called a seafaring man by any stretch of the imagination, but an eight-month voyage to Australia hadn't left him entirely ignorant. He knew that the squall that had aided their escape had been tamed by the shallowness of the sea around Hell's Gates. Given the depth of the ocean to play with, weather like that would sink them within an hour.

0-0-0-0-0

The fates smiled upon their voyage for three days, just as in all the very best tales. 

On the morning of the forth the sun arose but remained veiled in the sky behind a barricade of thunder-cloud as if night had never left. The wind took to tormenting the waves and the waves rose in retaliation, trying their best to drown the sky. The temperature dropped, and the ocean grew white flecks on a glass-green and sickly countenance. The storm howled in fury and the depths answered its call...

Barker awoke as the boat tipped and he was thrown bodily against the side, rough planking slamming into his shoulder. With a cry he fought against the sodden canvas that gripped him; a world the colour of a bruise greeted his eyes as the boat rose high on the crest of a wave. 

It was then he realised that he was utterly alone. 

Panic spiked through his gut as he looked wildly – foolishly – from prow to stern and back again. "Todd?" his voice was a horrified whisper but swiftly became a shout. "Todd!" He strained to see against the salt-spray, scanning the waves for a monochrome figure, eagerly seeking a scrap of white linen or a glimmer of light upon a hand or face lifting itself free of the ocean's embrace. _"Todd!"_

The sea roared in answer, sending a wave to engulf the little craft. Barker was knocked down by the force of the water, his head cracking against the bench. Pain split his skull, bright red and white hot by turns as the air he breathed became water instead. A dark numbness blossomed in his mind and with it the clear knowledge that he was too tired to fight any more.

"Breathe, damn your eyes," hissed Todd's voice, seething with unspeakable anger. "Breathe!"

And for a while longer, Barker found he had the strength to fight after all. The maelstrom winds battered against him and the cold of the waves leached all feeling from him until he fancied he was a spar, a broken beam, some fragment of wood whirling upon the ocean's face. Light, time, land, humanity and salvation: all became mythical and meaningless – there was only the storm. 

An eternity passed and then another before the storm seemed to fade in the face of Sweeney Todd's constant and unending string of profanities. A third eternity came to pass in a deathly half-light as the wind and waves made their peace with each other; Barker survived it only because of Todd's scorn and myriad threats of what would befall his soul should Barker release his hold upon it. 

But eventually, even Todd's wrath wasn't enough to persuade his numb fingers to hold on forever. As a wave nudged him Barker let go, gracefully slipping under the surface, beginning his inexorable decent to oblivion.

There was a shout and a strong, calloused hand weathered by the sun plunged through the water and grabbed his wrist before it sunk out of reach.


	4. Chapter 4

He believed himself a spirit, something uncontained and bodiless; and for that he was grateful, what little he could feel was icy suffering. Somewhere beyond the pain and the darkness there were voices.

"I don't know why you bothered. Look at him! He's a fucking ghost..."

There was a heavy, pointed silence.

"Beg pardon. I'm just saying, is all," the voice continued nervously. "It ain't right. Ghosts in the water. He's like a Jonah..."

"Evans," said a second voice, its tones both cultured and battling impatience. "If he is a ghost returned to the living, that would make him a Lazarus. If you're going to place superstition above Christian duty to a fellow human being then at least keep your ridiculous opinions accurate."

"Sir," came the mollified reply.

"Oh and Evans? If I hear you mention the word 'Jonah' in connection with our guest I shall personally see to it that Captain Flemming orders you before the mast and has you flogged for a turning of a glass – is that clear?"

"Sir."

"You're dismissed."

Another silence which the pain strove to fill.

"Mr Hope?" The words now held a curious mix of vagary and acute concentration.

"Sir?" offered a new and slightly younger voice.

"If your adventures have left you none the worse for ware, you could do me the kindness of holding this lantern for me. Quickly now..."

"Sir."

There was light but it was thinner than starlight and did nothing to banish the darkness that held him.

Fingers pressed against his skull, probing against the bloody nest of pain that lived there, coaxing it to agony and his thoughts to senselessness.

0-0-0-0-0

Once the gash in the man's head had been stitched, Inghram sent Anthony Hope away. The young sailor had wished for assurances that the man he'd rescued would live, but had to make do with Ingram's mildly irritated comment that such things were – he being a mere mortal – beyond his meagre provenance. Regretting his waspish comment he assured Hope that the man would likely live if he survived the night, and that word would be sent should anything occur.

Alone with the unconscious man, the ship's doctor looked at him for a long moment, a frown settling on his forehead. At last he sighed and began the task of removing the man's clothes so some semblance of life could be chaffed into his limbs before he was wrapped in blankets. The clothes were of strong cloth that had been worn almost to rags; the shirt came apart in sodden pieces. 

Inghram should have checked the man for broken bones; but instead of pressing against flesh in search of injury, the doctor's hands were still as he stared at the man on his table. 

Evans had been right; he was a bloody ghost – a bloodless ghost in fact. His skin was parchment-pale and clung gauntly to his skeleton. He had stubble upon his cheek and a shock of black hair tangled above his brow. There was something disturbingly beautiful – ethereal – about him. Except for the bands like brands about his wrists and the barely-healed stripes upon his back; those were all too earthly. The mark of the lash spoke of a troublemaker or perhaps of one who'd weathered harsh superiors. The scars around his wrists however spoke of only one thing: convict.

"Can't say there's much of an outlook for you, my friend," Inghram sympathised. "Death or the brig, I'd warrant. Pity – I had hoped for fresh conversation."

As if he had heard the doctor's words, the man on the table opened his eyes; they were as hard and bright as black diamond. And in their depths they held the greatest quantity of fear, hate and resolve Inghram had ever seen. Immediately the man tried to sit up.

With a bitten oath Inghram grasped the man's bony shoulders, pinning him back in place. "Lie easy! No harm will come to you – lie easy I say!" 

Fitfully, the struggles ceased. 

"Wh're...?" The man croaked.

"You're on the HMS Bountiful under Captain Flemming - bound for England. You were pulled from the water. I'm Mark Inghram, ship's surgeon."

The dark eyes in the sharp and wasted face lost some of their fire and much of their focus.

"And you, sir? Have you a name?"

The eyes were closing; with a great effort the man rasped out a word, the meaning unintelligible as the darkness claimed him once more.

0-0-0-0-0

Inghram pondered on his patient's likely fate as he stripped away the rest of his sodden clothes and scrubbed at him with a blanket, trying to bully the blood back into his limbs.

The man had been spotted just before dawn when the sea was slate and teal and the sky a paling silver. The watch had set up a cry, startling the doctor who was stood on the forecastle lighting a cheroot. Muttering oaths he'd hurried to the main deck and been in time to witness young Mr Hope shake off his shoes and jacket and fasten a rope securely about his waist. Instructing his surprised shipmates not to lose the other end, he calmly dove from the rail into the sea. 

Inghram leant over the side to watch, gladdened to learn that at least one of the crew could swim – he'd never understood sailors' general aversion to the skill. 

Mr Hope was an excellent swimmer; he broke the surface and took his bearings before setting forth with steady stroke to a shape floating ahead of them not two hundred yards to port. As Hope closed the distance the swell caused by the Bountiful disturbed the sea and the pale mass began to sink. A shout rang out from those on deck, but Hope needed no warning; he forced his pace to quicken and then flung himself under the waves, knifing beneath the swell like a harpoon. A ragged cheer was voiced soon after as Hope surfaced once more, struggling to keep hold of the pale burden in his arms. 

"Haul 'em in!" 

"Set the launch!"

In a sudden turn of pessimism, Inghram stepped away from the rail and returned instead to his cheroot; loitering by the forecastle, on hand but out of the way. Why should a body in the water be of concern to him? It would be a corpse; they would haul it aboard, straighten its limbs, stitch it in a sailcloth shroud and return it to the sea once more. Bloody fool waste of effort. There'd been no sight of sail since they left the Brass Straights, and no sight of smoke or wreck on the horizon. Where had this lone survivor come from? Silently he cursed his own curiosity. Body – he meant body – mysterious lone 'survivors' were a fiction.

When Inghram extinguished the last of his smoke, the longboat was being winched back, hand over hand, from the side of the ship to the deck, carrying Hope and his questionable prize.

"Set–to, easy as she goes!"

"Pick up that slack Mr Berne!"

"Pull!"

"Aye!" chorused back a dozen sail-hands.

"Pull!"

"Aye!"

And then Anthony Hope could be heard to call over the chant, "Sir! Mr Inghram, sir! I think he's alive!"

Forcing clear words past his disbelief Inghram ordered the man lifted from the launch and lain on the deck. With economical moves made swift with confidence the doctor turned the body onto its side, placed one hand against the sternum and then thumped the man soundly thrice between the shoulder blades. The body convulsed mechanically and retched up a quart of brine. "Mr Hope?" Inghram called, not letting his eyes stray for a moment from the sodden figure in front of him.

"Sir?"

"You're well, I trust?"

"Sir."

"He's bleeding!"

There was a murmur of confusion before the sailor replied, "I'm unharmed sir – the hurt is his."

"In that case, Mr Hope, Mr Evans – bring our guest – there's work to be done if we're to keep hold of him..."


	5. Chapter 5

The reason Inghram had been so keen to spirit the unconscious man below deck and away from the eyes of the crew had been two-fold. Firstly, the faster the man was tended and made warm the better his chances of living. Secondly he hoped to prevent anyone else from noticing the scars he'd glimpsed; scars that spoke ill of the man's past.

Sitting on the edge of his bunk in which the man now lay, Inghram could only suppose he'd been successful. Captain Flemming had neither appeared in person nor sent word that the brig had been readied; he'd simply requested Inghram make report when his duties allowed. 

The doctor rubbed at his eyes and the bridge of his nose briefly, a habitual gesture of tiredness or irritation, before continuing to wrap the strip of bandage tightly around the man's left wrist until it was clothed as neatly as its brother. It was poor as far as disguises went, but with luck it would buy him a little more time to learn the stranger's story and keep prying eyes at bay.

A wry smile lit his features. He was getting ahead of himself, as ever. To learn the man's story he first had to put his skills to good use and prevent the patient from dying of fever, exhaustion, malnutrition or any other sickness that was trying to claim him. And for that, the man must be forced somehow to drink.

The blessing of being barely a month out of port was that supplies were still plentiful and relatively fresh. It would take another month at least for the water to become noticeably foul instead of brackish and for the last of the fruit to wither and be consumed. Two months by his reckoning before the goats were slaughtered... 

He had no fondness for goats, with their twin natures of wrath and impossible gluttony, their bloody mindedness and their evil ochre eyes. Still, he had to admit that the little bastards were quite well suited to ship life. They gained sustenance from anything up to and including the decking, they could keep their feet well enough in a squall, their stink and bleating was no worse than the rest of the crew and instead of drinking rum they gave milk. Model sailors really; the Navy would draft them in an instant if only they could climb the damn rigging.

Inghram had the cook boil some water and bring it in a pitcher with a bowl and spoon; he also ordered a flask of milk to be commandeered each day. For the next four days the doctor barely left the edge of his bunk. He took his meals in his cabin when he remembered to eat and slept on the floor in a blanket having given strict orders he was to be awoken at each changing of the watch. In the endless hours between, Inghram spoon-fed the man warm water and fresh milk, hoping that enough had passed his lips to sustain him. The stranger did not wake again but lay cocooned in blankets, shivering with fever. His skin was ash-grey, save for two blushes of colour burning high on his cheeks; his breathing grew shallower and his heart stuttered out of time. His body lived, but only by rote.

Inghram rubbed at his eyes, scowling as if pained. He had seen it before. Alone or in danger men could endure all manner of hardship: suffer gross injury with a fortitude that was almost preternatural. But when at last they were granted succour, something in their souls seemed to breathe a sigh of relief - ceased to fight - and slipped away. He had always wondered if perhaps long ago the phrase 'mercy killing' had meant just that – to kill not _for_ mercy but because of it.

0-0-0-0-0

The doctor took to talking to him as he fed the man spoonful after spoonful of water and as he cleaned the wounds each day with vinegar and took note of their slow but encouraging healing. 

He spoke of the crew on the ship, of the officers he got along with and the one or two whose insufferable pig-headedness caused him to harbour extremely unchristian thoughts. He spoke of Captain Flemming and how they'd met in Genoa seven years ago; he'd been captivated by the thought of Australia, that strange southern continent filled with wonders still un-catalogued. Flemming had promised that if Inghram sailed on the Bountiful he would see Australia. It had taken the captain five years to fulfil his promise – a tardiness the doctor mocked him for even now – but the promise had been kept, something that in its own way charmed him more than Australia had when they finally arrived there. The fabled land had not been all the doctor hoped it would be; mysteries of natural science were being replaced with the miseries of convicts and the striving of colonists to make a living. By that time however he'd developed a taste for the sea and a firm friendship with Flemming, so he elected to remain with the Bountiful even after she'd returned to England.

Inghram poured some goat's milk into a bowl and paused to massage a crick out of his shoulders; being leant over a sick-bed all hours of the day was not doing kind things to his bones. He sighed and then startled slightly to see his patient struggle to consciousness. 

"Awake at last," the doctor murmured approvingly and with some relief. "How do you feel?"

Dark, exhausted eyes flickered uneasily across the cabin taking in their surroundings and struggling to comprehend.

Inghram leant forward and touched his hand briefly to the man's forehead, noting how he flinched back from the contact. "Your fever's broken, that's something at least... You must be thirsty. Shall I help you sit so that you might drink a little water?" Ingram moved to grasp the man's shoulders but the stranger shifted away from him with surprising speed, pressing himself into the corner of the bunk.

Warily the eyes watched him.

"Sir, I mean you no harm – I've been doing everything within my power to preserve your life ever since we found you. Sir?" His brow furrowed. There was a possibility that the man spoke no English or that his wits were still scattered. "Do you understand me?"

Some of the panic thawed from the man's face. After several long moments he inclined his head a fraction and lowered his gaze, signalling that he did.

"We pulled you from the water four days ago. Your scalp was split and had to be stitched but it's been healing nicely..." He paused before adding softly, "As have your other injuries."

The man's expression showed pain and a sick sort of acceptance.

"You haven't served all of your sentence, have you?"

His head tipped listlessly to the side, tears glossing his eyes - which as an answer was eloquent enough.

"How long were you there?" Inghram asked, keeping his voice quiet and his words deceptively easy.

The man swallowed. "N-nine..." he breathed.

"Where?"

"_Macquarie."_

Inghram was silenced by that. Macquarie Harbour and the islands within it was a penal colony whose prisoners only ever served life – however short that might turn out to be. "What did you do?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Got in the way," the man uttered bitterly.

"I beg your pardon?"

The man closed his eyes briefly, trying to master his voice and his feelings. "Pearls," he said at last. "They said I... stole a string of pearls."

Inghram bowed his head, rubbing fretfully at the bridge of his nose as if nursing a headache. Captain Flemming liked to make good time and swore he stopped only for His Majesty, God and the tide; but even he might make an exception to return someone flown from Macquarie. 

Something within the doctor sickened at the thought of sending the man back. It would make mock of saving him in the first place. And if he had stolen a string of pearls then wasn't nine years of hell recompense enough? 

Inghram made up his mind. 

He raised his head and regarded the thin man on the bunk. "Listen to me. It was only half-light when we brought you in and no one saw your wrists or back save me," he spoke urgently as if refusing to give himself time to reconsider. "A crack on the head like you had can play havoc with a man's memories, and information is a bastard to verify at sea. This is what happened: you were aboard the Valentine – she's a trading ketch we saw at Williamstown taking on supplies. She reefed in a squall off Portland – damn tragedy. You launched the boats as she floundered, you don't know what happened to the others, much of your memory is missing – I doubt you even know your own name. Do I make myself clear?"

The man was staring at him in frank disbelief.

"Now, sir: how did you come to be in the ocean?" Inghram asked sternly.

"Boarded the Valentine... Williamstown," he whispered hollowly. "R-reefed off Portland."

The doctor nodded briskly, a half-smile tugging at his lips. "Good man." He stood and gave the briefest of bows. "If you'll excuse me, I must make my report to the captain. You should rest," he ordered. "We'll see about getting you fed when I return."


	6. Chapter 6

"Captain Flemming is greatly curious about you, sir," Inghram commented. "Well," he gave a little shrug. "Who would not be? Every time I leave this berth I must fend off questions!" The doctor's smile faltered; he had meant his words to be a comfort, something to fill the silence and put the man at ease. But his guest looked anything but comforted.

Mentally Inghram cursed himself; the man was a convict – knowing an entire ship's crew wanted to plague him with questions would not be a happy thought. "Flemming wants to see you this eve, but I warned him it wasn't a safe wager..."

The dark and wary eyes showed gratitude.

Inghram felt like the biggest bastard on god's earth. Here was a man escaped from hell, half drowned, half dead, wholly at the world's mercy and Inghram was arranging to show him off like some curio at the captain's table.

The doctor rubbed at the bridge of his nose and then ran a hand through his short chestnut hair trying to centre himself once more in the practical needs of the present, not the worries of the future. 

"We'll make you presentable then see if you've the strength to dine at table. One thing at a time, eh?" He looked about him, everything was laid out in readiness – but where was Fletcher with the hot water? The doctor sighed in irritation; Fletcher was an absent-minded ass. "It seems I'm to be my own dogsbody today," he said with good humour. "I'm to the galley to fetch hot water; when I return we'll get you cleaned up. I've found clothes for you too – I believe you're sufficiently mended to suffer cloth upon your back..."

The bruised eyes looked noncommittal.

"Well then," the doctor muttered pointlessly. Feeling unaccountably awkward he left the cabin, closing the door behind him.

0-0-0-0-0

Barker lay still for some moments, locked in indecision. He wanted to hide – to flee – to find some safe corner where he could bide until they docked once more in English waters. The thought of answering questions chilled him when he knew even a single mistake could deliver him back into the maw of Macquarie.

But – and this made him sick enough to retch – there was some small sliver of him that would welcome a return to the island. It may be a living death, but it was one he knew at least; and there was a perverse sort of comfort in that. The thought of being around people, of sitting at dinner with strangers, of being expected to converse... How could he? That part of him, that indefinable _something_ that made him a man in the eyes of society had been kicked and worked, worn and whipped to nothing.

Base instincts borne of survival warned him he was being weak. He had no strength to defend himself and he had nowhere to hide. The only course left to him was to brazen the whole thing out. Force his body to obey even if the effort killed him. Hold his head up, stay calm, look the world in the eye: false-face and pretend by force of will alone that he was still Benjamin Barker and not his sorry shadow.

Slowly he sat up, his mouth set in a thin, grim line. His brows furrowed in effort and a spike of pain stabbed into his skull. He lifted a hand to his forehead, unable to quite touch the knot of hurt that lived there. It was only pain, he reminded himself. Pain was something to be ignored – or failing that, endured. 

Carefully he eased his legs over the side of the bunk; they were clad in baggy cotton under-britches. Briefly he wondered whose they were - Inghram's he supposed. The flesh on his back was tender and complained against every move he made, but at least it no longer felt like a freshly-stripped carcass.

He looked around the little cabin, buying himself some time before he attempted to stand. There was a sea-chest by the bunk, a grand and well-cared for box made of polished walnut with shining brass hinges. Above that was a small locker and a lantern hook – most likely where the doctor kept his supplies. Opposite the bunk was a shelf that folded down from the wall and was supported beneath by trestles. It was of such a size and height as to work serviceably either as a writing desk, an operating table or an extra bunk. Clean clothes were folded neatly upon it as well as various other items that Barker found hauntingly familiar.

With a sigh of effort he gained his feet, reaching quickly for something to grab onto as his vision darkened and his blood thrummed in his ears. Had he not been in the belly of a ship he would have measured his length upon the floor; he clung gratefully to the bulkhead, his legs still weak enough to struggle with even the gentlest motion of the ship. 

In time he opened his eyes again and moved hesitantly towards the trestle table. He looked at the rag folded neatly besides the little jar of shaving paste and badger-hair brush, the tortoiseshell comb resting across a pair of thin-nosed scissors. Knowledge blazed through his mind – thoughts that had remained shuttered and disregarded for a decade...

He hissed, fighting against the sudden vertigo of memory. 

The scissors were nicknamed 'beaks' and were wicked sharp. He knew metal combs outlasted tortoiseshell or ivory but the teeth snagged in hair and wigs alike. He knew how much water to add to the paste to allow it to foam with a touch of the brush – just like a cook might know how to cream butter and sugar in an instant while a novice laboured clumsily. 

He picked up the shaving brush, staring perplexed at the carved ivory and worn bristles that were in need of replacing. 

Uncomfortable and still slightly nauseous he placed it back on the table. His fingers twitched to the right, straining towards the object there but fearing to touch it. A gently curved mother-of-pearl handle with silver clasps housed a blade of some sort... 

His fingers strayed closer, finally closing with reverence around the all too familiar shape. A snap of finger and wrist, and up smiled four inches of Sheffield straight steel. He held it before him, almost entranced, watching the lantern light play along the edge. The reflected flame wavered uncertainly and he knew that the blade was dulled in the middle, the edge not as keen as it ought to be. 

Unbidden his left hand reached to his waist, searching for the leather strop that had often hung from his belt. His fingers closed on nothing, cheated and lost; he caught their movement in the little looking glass. It was a plain thing, half a foot square in a wooden frame with the silver pealing from the back in places. 

He looked closer, and then he simply stared, unable to speak and fighting the rising urge to scream. He hadn't seen his reflection since he'd left London. Memory showed him a handsome young man with a fair complexion and laughing honey-dark eyes, slightly foppish hair and an indulgent, ready smile – that was him – that was who he was – Lucille's husband – Benjamin – that was him...

Wide eyed with hate and horror the face in the looking glass mocked him. Cold obsidian eyes, red rimmed and sunken in shadow stared from a narrow countenance with sharp bone structure and topped with wild hair. His mind rebelled; it was as if he had expected to behold Samael the Lightbringer and instead was faced with Lucifer the Morningstar. That was Todd – not him – that was Sweeney Todd! He held the razor out in front of him as if that could ward against the truth the mirror had shown.

_Denying me now, are you boy?_ Growled a voice in his ear. _You were all too pleased t' have my help before..._

In his mind's eye it was night on Sarah Island and he watched Todd pick up a rock and move as silent and invisible as a spirit of the grave to where a redcoat stood on watch... And bludgeon the soldier's skull until it was broken upon the ground.

_Me? You think that was me, boy?_ Todd started to laugh, a rusted malicious sound that pained the ears.

"Stay away! Leave me!" he raised one arm as a shield and slashed out blindly with the razor. The flies were back, swarming in his skull and buzzing behind his eyes.

_You disappoint me,_ Todd said coldly. There was the fine sibilance of a blade as it sang through the air and he felt a stinging heat blossom across his wrist.

"Damn you – leave me be!" he begged, only to be rewarded with further scorn and laughter. He lashed out with the blade again and hoped for a moment that he'd hit his mark, but then the flesh of his arm opened like a warm smile and he knew that Todd had the better of him. 

The ship leant into the wind and his legs folded, slamming him into a corner between chest and bunk. He sat, stunned and bleeding where he'd fell.

_You're nothing with out me, boy,_ the daemon told him. _Without me you'd be dead back in that shit-hole... But with me – ah, with me we're a force to be reckoned with..._

The rock in his fist rose and fell repeatedly against the shattered and softening skull of the redcoat.

"No!" he shouted, sobbing his defiance. "It wasn't me – it wasn't – I didn't..."

_And who d'you think would believe that?_ Todd asked nastily.

"Leave me be!" 

In answer the straight blade struck out again and pain jolted his nerves.

"Leave me!"


	7. Chapter 7

"Sir!"

Strong fingers snaked around his wrists causing such agony that he opened his eyes and gasped in shock.

Inghram knelt before him, his features twisted with concern.

He stared at the warm and vivid crimson that coursed down his left arm beneath the doctor's fingers and the ruined bandage. His right hand still clutched the straight razor; only now his hand was as numb and weak as the rest of him and the blade dropped from his nerveless fingers. He shook his head, his gaze unfocused and filled with the red that flowed from him. "I... I didn't," he muttered. "I didn't..." And then in a voice so broken it was pitiful, "Make him go away. Please... make him go..."

Inghram's grey eyes tried to offer stability. "There is only us," he said gently. "No one else is here. No one will harm you." The slightest of frowns grazed his brow, the only evidence of his own panic he allowed. "Come, sir. Let's get you to the bunk and see to your arm."

He tried to nod his consent but the world disappeared, leaving him floating and falling by turns. When next he opened his eyes he was lain in the bunk, his left arm swathed in wet red cloth and stretched out across a board on the doctor's lap. Unaccountably he began to shiver.

Inghram looked up from threading a curved needle with catgut and picked up a small cerulean coloured bottle. "Here," he raised the man's head with his free hand. "Drink a little of this..."

The thick syrupy liquid burned his tongue tasting unpleasantly of sugar and something bitterly rotten. Almost immediately his senses began to numb. "Don't let him near me," he begged, desperation catching in his throat. "Make him leave – get him out!" He was struggling to move despite having nowhere to go and no strength to get him there.

"Sir – we are alone – now I beg you, lie still..."

Feverishly he watched as Sweeney Todd picked up the straight razor from the floor and nonchalantly wiped the blade clean on his sleeve. "I- I think he means to kill me," he uttered, his voice showing a hurt sort of confusion.

Todd gave him a sideways look and raised one eyebrow like a tutor faced with a particularly slow-witted child.

"Stay away from me!" His face contained a wildness approaching mania and he fought to distance himself not only from the ghosts of his mind but from Inghram also.

"Sir – please..." Perhaps the laudanum had been a mistake. In someone unused to opiates the drug often produced extreme agitation before its soporific properties took hold. "Sir!" Gritting his teeth against the guilt he knew would plague him, Inghram took a firmer hold on the man's arm and dug his fingers harshly into the wounded flesh.

The effect was as immediate as it was profound. The man's whole frame stiffened in shock, limbs and breath rigid as the unexpected pain incinerated all other thoughts from his mind. Then his body seemed to collapse in upon itself, subdued and defenseless, shivers running through his bones like palsy.

Inghram carefully loosened his hold on the bloody arm, his conscience already smarting at using suffering as a means of control. He picked up his surgeon's needle once more.

"Don't leave me with him," the man in the bunk whispered as he stared blankly past the doctor towards a space by the sea-chest.

"You're safe, there is no one..."

"Swear it," the man begged, although his words contained a chasm of hopelessness as if he knew that all the oaths in the world could not protect him.

"Sir, nothing will..."

"Swear!" he commanded weakly holding on to consciousness by the barest thread.

"I swear I will do all I can to aid you and keep you from harm, sir," Inghram said gently.

In the corner, Sweeney Todd smiled with dark humour.

Inghram watched as the man's jet-black eyes grew dull and finally slipped beneath sinking lids as the laudanum took hold of him. He worked quickly, neatly, stitching the gaping wounds together again despite the dark sluggish blood that insisted on seeping through. There were five cuts in all, two of which had not reached muscle but two of which had touched the vein; it was only blind luck he hadn't crippled his entire hand.

With each stitch pulled closed Inghram wondered what it was that had eroded the man's reason when he had been calm before. Something must have caused the change... But no satisfactory answer presented itself.

Once more the doctor wrapped pale strips of linen around equally pale wrists, binding real wounds this time and not just the tell-tale presence of scars. He wondered if this charade he'd instigated would hold. Could the man's past be kept secret from Flemming and the rest? He hoped so, if only for no other reason than he'd spent so much damn effort keeping the man alive. His body was healing well enough, admirably really, considering all it had been through; pity the mind seemed to be failing under the strain. Was it nervous exhaustion or something more permanent?

Inghram tied off the bandage and laid the arm neatly at the stranger's waist, considering the man's appearance as he did so. If the snarls were cut from his hair, the stubble shaved from his cheek and the smell of sickness washed from his body... A pair of trousers would disguise his emaciation and a shirt would cover his scars...

He would make a presentable tradesman or professional – a tailor maybe or a clerk of the courts, Inghram mused.

A scowl.

No. He would never truly look like either. That strange and wild beauty of his proclaimed wastrel or poet and his eyes were too brimful of hate and fear to mark him as anything other than a man on the run from his past. The doctor sighed. Scars could be hidden, flesh could be healed: but nothing could be done to change what showed of the soul in a man's eyes.

On the bunk the man twitched as the opium sharpened his dreams.

Inghram thought back to his oath, given under duress in the hope of granting even a single moment's peace to his charge. It was a piper's promise of course; he could barely protect the man from Flemming and the crew if pressed, let alone whatever demons plagued his mind.

Another twitch. The hand on the blanket reached for something and a strangled sound of dread was made when the fingers grasped nothing at all.

In his mind's eye did he reach for a spar of wood to save himself from drowning? The hand of a friend or lover? Or - Inghram allowed as his cynicism resurfaced with its usual sudden bite – a weapon to defend himself? Within the turning of the world he doubted it made a speck of difference. Every man was alone in his dreams, pleasant or foul, and must weather Morpheus' kingdom as best he may.

"I wish you safe journey, my friend," he murmured. "I pray you find your way back to us."


	8. Chapter 8

**Hello darlings, here at last is the final fragment of my story. **

**I hope you enjoyed it - please leave me a review, even if it is to criticize and tell me there are ten thousand plot-holes and everybody's 'voice' was wrong! Just knowing someone read my story utterly makes my day - squee :) **

**By the way, Dr Mark Inghram is my version of Mark Ingesterie who is of course another version of Anthony Hope - but you probably guessed that! (In a film he'd be played by Nicolas Farrell, a lovely British actor who can make one believe implicitly that some people do good for good's sake - totally Inghram.)**

* * *

_You seem to be under the misapprehension that you're safe, boy,_ Todd complained darkly. _No idea where you got that fuckin' notion. _

_Look at you! Safe? You're in a bay, bleedin' like a stuck pig in shark infested waters – and I'm the raft that's holding you up! You think Inghram can keep you safe? _

He laughed, an unpleasant sound that boded ill for someone.

_He's bought you time, is all. This ship – this crew and the captain – you think they give a spit f'you? You ain't worth the food it'd take t'keep you. They'd drop you back where they found you if they knew you was Macquarie scum._

_You need me._

His words were flat and leaden, like a pipe frozen in winter that tears the skin from your hand because it's cold, so cold.

_You've got a choice, boy. You can tell me to get out and I'll leave you be. I'll disappear like you never knew me, and watch as the sharks circle closer when they catch scent o'your blood. I'll get meself a penny-seat in the stalls an' fuckin' laugh as they tear you apart – because they will – you mark me, they will._

_I ain't got patience for half-wits. You got a choice, boy, and you gotta make it now – cos it won't come again. You can take your chances. Lock me out an' see how far you get on ya own. You might have friends, an' that might be enough. But you'll always be a dead man walking – a sorry thing the world has spat on that ain't got the guts t'kick back. You might find Lucille, she might even have you. But know this: you will always fail her – you'll never be able to protect her from anythin' and you'll spend your life pissin' y'self every time the likes o' Him come anywhere near you._

There was silence but it was a silence filled with his stare, which in turn was filled with the dark between the stars – so unknowable, so unreachable, so blank and so damn cold.

_Or ya can let me in. Let me do the talkin' from now on. I won't teach you how t'swim in these waters... I'll teach you t'be a fuckin' shark! A hungry ghost who lives for justice, blood and vengeance. And I swear t'you, I won't let you down, I'll watch your back for as long as you need me._

A thin smile.

_An' when we're done; when He's nothing but a name on a tombstone then I'll fade away like the morning mist on Hampstead Heath – you got my word. Lucile can have you back, her naive and beloved Benjamin, a little worse f'wear but nothin' she can't fix – no blood on his hands 'cos it's all on mine..._

Silence; a courtesy only because they both knew what the answer would be – both knew there was only one answer there could be.

_So,_said Todd. _What d'you say?_

0-0-0-0-0

Inghram awoke from a restless sleep to find the occupant of the bunk gazing at him; it was a chilling look despite its utter lack of malice. In fact it showed a great lack of anything at all which was why the doctor found it so off-putting.

It was as if all confusion, fear, doubt or hope had been obliterated; buried beneath uncountable fathoms of volcanic glass that shone so clear and black in those eyes. All that remained was a patient purpose – although what task that purpose might seek to complete Inghram didn't know and didn't care to know.

He felt that he had watched a metamorphosis; the sea had drowned this man for all that he'd been rescued, he had died by degrees despite the doctor's care. And what had awoken in his place was a colder, stronger and far more certain creature.

"I owe you my life." The voice was rough and low, the London cadence more pronounced than before. A glance towards his arm, aching and bandaged on the sheet. "You have my word that I'll not attempt t' waste it."

The relief Inghram felt was immense; he'd feared the strain and fever had irreparably addled the man's senses, breaking him into something that only sought destruction for himself or others.

"I'm glad to hear it. I feared I was at fault; pushing you towards company when you were not ready."

A small shake of the head. "The blame is mine. I was... unsettled. It won't happen again," he said softly and with great certainty. He fell silent after that, although his expression showed calculation, as if he was measuring his words carefully before committing them to sound. "I thought perhaps... I might dress an' tidy myself." There was a hint of questioning in those words, a seeking of the doctor's approval.

"Of course!" Inghram smiled. "Although I can't promise as to the fit of the clothes..."

The man hauled himself upright and sat, tired and straight-backed, gazing down at his bandaged wrists as they rested upon the blue cotton of his borrowed under-britches. Clothes and cleanliness didn't make a gentleman of course, but they could in his experience make a damn big difference.

"You've done more f'me than I could ever repay, Mr Inghram."

The doctor looked up, a little surprised to hear his name for in truth he'd thought the man near insensible when he'd offered it.

The unknowable obsidian eyes held his gaze. "I beg your forgiveness f'my lack of manners." One thin wrist lifted from his lap as he held out his hand in formal greeting. "My name is Sweeney Todd. At your service, sir." A small smile, sharp and vulpine. "An' I would be honoured t' dine with Captain Flemming at his convenience."


End file.
